Powers of Persuasion
by dreamdescend
Summary: Elizabeth tries to force Beckett to sign the letters of marque, but he tricks her into firing a warning shot, and she wastes the only bullet. With his threats of imprisonment and death hanging over her head, she has nothing to bargain with. Or does she?
1. Persuasion

Elizabeth tries to force Beckett to sign the letters of marque, but he tricks her into firing a warning shot, and she wastes the only bullet. With his threats of imprisonment and death hanging over her head, she has nothing to bargain with. Or does she?

I have several chapters of this written, but I've been posting them at Beckett fan sites. It seems like the majority of FFN dislikes Beckett, so unless I feel that people will enjoy the continuation of the story, I'll leave it as a oneshot. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean, nor do I profit from this story. I play with the characters for my own amusement.

**Powers of Persuasion **

Elizabeth cocked the flintlock, the click echoing ominously in the silent room, and Lord Cutler Beckett tilted his head away from the cold barrel.

"I call your bluff, Miss Swann," he said after a long moment. "You won't do it."

Elizabeth's jaw clenched and in one quick movement she fired the pistol into the air. Beckett flinched at the deafening blast, and a shower of plaster and wood chips fell and scattered around them. "I would," Elizabeth replied, her voice steely.

Beckett glanced at the pistol, and allowed himself a small smile. "Not anymore."

For a moment, Elizabeth didn't understand the triumphant gleam in his eye. Suddenly she sucked in a breath of realization. She schooled her face into an expressionless mask, but she cursed herself for blindly falling for the man's trap. _How could I be so stupid? _He had counted on her lack of knowledge of weaponry to goad her into firing a warning shot. In her anger, she had foolishly forgotten that the flintlock carried only one bullet.

"Very clever," she replied, her voice calm but her mind racing in an attempt to jump one step ahead of his train of thought.

Beckett smiled condescendingly, and Elizabeth was sorely tempted to strike him with the butt of the pistol and wipe the smirk off his face.

"It seems you have nothing left to bargain with," he said, raising his hand and pushing the now-harmless pistol away. Elizabeth snatched it back and kept a tight grip on it - she refused to relinquish her hold on it, despite the fact that it was useless. Beckett seemed to find this amusing. "And even more in my favor," he continued. "Even the governor's daughter cannot get away with threatening me with bodily harm."

Beckett turned his back on her, crossing the room and seating himself behind his desk. He smoothed the front of his immaculate waistcoat and regarded Elizabeth as if to see what she could try next.

"I'm already sentenced to hang," Elizabeth spat, despite her inner struggle to remain impersonal and aloof. "You can't do anything else to me."

A ghost of a smile appreared on Beckett's face and his eyes reflected the candlelight. "Oh, but you'll find that I can."

Elizabeth stared at him as he comfortably drummed his fingers on the polished surface of his desk. "Seeing as you are facing the charges for assisting a fugitive from justice, you know what the punishment is. Just think - now your father will have to face that same punishment for freeing you."

Elizabeth's breath hitched in her throat. "You wouldn't dare."

Beckett merely smiled serenely, and rage bubbled up inside her. "It seems that I am holding all the cards, Miss Swann," he replied.

She knew he was right, and tears of anger and frustration welled in her eyes. Her pride would not allow her to grovel and beg for mercy, but she was boxed in and could see no way out.

"Lord Beckett." Elizabeth made her voice as cold as possible. "My father is a good and innocent man. Surely you would not hang him for simply acting out of love for his only child?"

"How good are your powers of persuasion?"

Elizabeth was taken aback by Beckett's sudden interruption. "What?"

He raised his hand and beckoned for her to come forward. Elizabeth drew her chin up. "I prefer to stand where I am."

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Really, Miss Swann, do you think you're in a position to argue?"

Elizabeth gritted her teeth and took several steps forward until her gown brushed against the desk. "What do you want, Lord Beckett?" She had to force the title off her tongue - it heightened her rage all the more to address him as a superior.

"I believe I asked you about your powers of persuasion."

Elizabeth felt a chill dance up her spine. "What about them?"

Beckett toyed idly with an ivory letter-opener, turning it over and over between his fingers. "Everyone has their price, Miss Swann. And I can see you're the type of devoted daughter who would do anything to save her father... and the kind of person who would do what it takes to save herself." He glanced up at her, and his gaze was somehow both calm and intense. "Come here."

Elizabeth remained rooted to the spot, and Beckett sighed. He gestured smoothly. "Come here, Miss Swann, and put the letters on the desk." His voice had a harder edge to it. After a long moment of delay, she set the letters down, as well as the pistol, and reluctantly moved around the desk to stand before him.

Beckett turned in his chair to appraise her, his eyes calculating and unreadable. She clenched her jaw and tried to avoid his gaze, but found she couldn't.

Abruptly, Beckett reached out and took her by the wrist. Elizabeth jumped, startled, and instantly twisted away, but his grip was strong and she let out a gasp of both pain and indignation.

"Let go of me," she snarled. Beckett merely watched her, still unruffled. "Remind yourself of the situation you're in, and say that again."

After several moments, Elizabeth slowly stopped fighting his grasp. She drew herself up, focusing all her fury into a heated glare. Beckett smiled. "That's better."

She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, but before she could, Beckett had caught her other wrist and was forcing her to the floor. She let out a cry and struggled to remain standing, but her stay in the prison had weakened her and she sank to her knees. Her skirts billowed around her and she stared up at him, a sudden stab of fear piercing her anger.

"What do you want?" she hissed to hide her distress.

Beckett tilted his head to one side, his eyes intense. "The question is, what do _you _want. And how badly do you want it?"

Elizabeth was silent, but her glare was furious. Her heart sped up as Beckett's gaze traveled over her neck and chest to the hint of breasts at the top of her bodice. She felt suddenly naked in the low-cut gown.

She tried once more to twist away but his hands were tight around her wrists, and she hung her head, staring at the floor as tears of despair and desperation rose in her eyes.

She felt both her wrists transferred to one of his hands, and suddenly his free hand was under her chin, tipping her face up to look at his. She forced herself to look away from his gaze, up at the ceiling, the underside of the table, anything. Suddenly her heart jolted at the sight of the ivory letter opener. The handle was peeking over the edge of the table. She flicked her eyes back to his.

"Lord Beckett," Elizabeth said suddenly, her voice husky. "You know I would do anything to save my father and to get those letters of marque. But I cannot pretend that at our first meeting, I was not... left with a strong impression of you."

She saw the change in his face, a rise of both desire and suspicion at her change of heart. "Is that so?" he queried, his voice calm, skeptical, but with a telltale roughness.

Elizabeth nodded. "I... I was ashamed, you see. I have been brought up an innocent, the way a young lady should be, but sometimes I lie awake at night with these thoughts I cannot control..."

She saw the pulse jump in his throat. She pulled her hands free of his now-loose grip and leaned forward on her knees, running her fingers up his waistcoat. He watched her, unmoving but with fire in his eyes as she reached his chest, sliding her hands along his shoulders. She was surprised to feel muscle beneath the crisp white shirt. She met his heated gaze, leaning closer until their lips barely brushed, extending her hand past his arm for the letter opener...

She snatched it up and jerked away, flicking the sharp point beneath Beckett's chin. He froze at the touch of the cold ivory on his neck. A pregnant pause hung in the air.

"Clever girl."

Elizabeth got to her feet, careful to keep the improvised weapon in place. "Sign the letters," she ordered, her eyes trained on him as she fumbled for the letters, throwing them down in his lap. His gaze remained fixed on her for a long moment. Unnerved, she brandished the letter opener. "Sign them!

He looked away and reached for a quill, dipping it into the ink pot and opening the letters, signing his name smoothly.

"You make great efforts to ensure Jack Sparrow's freedom," Beckett commented as the stick of red wax sizzled in the candle's flame. He pressed his seal into the soft drippings, folding up the letters and wrapping the leather cords around them.

Elizabeth ignored him and reached for the letters, but Beckett held onto them. "I'll still want that compass. Consider that in your calculations."

Elizabeth snatched the letters as soon as he released them. She dropped the letter opener and it fell to the floor with a clatter as she hurried to the doors. She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder before escaping into the night.


	2. Acquisition

Elizabeth fled into the night, her shoes thumping on the wooden veranda as she almost ran down the stairs. Her mind raced, thoughts tumbling together like small rocks on the sea shore. She had to leave Port Royal and find Will... Tortuga, he said he would start his search in Tortuga...

She hurried through the sleeping town towards the docks. She could hear lively music from rowdy taverns but she kept away, skirting the main streets and slipping down smaller side alleys. Her stays were not laced very tightly, but stays were not made for running and it her breath came shallowly. She clutched the precious letters of marque as her vision swam, and she forced herself to slow down, panting and sinking against the wall.

Frustration rose inside her. Why did all this have to happen? Why couldn't life be simple for once? There was a time when she longed for excitement, for something thrilling to come along and stir up her mundane existence. Not that she wanted a boring life - but why did adventure have to come hand in hand with murderers, and curses, and evil pirates, and horrible lords who tried to take advantage of a girl...

She shut her eyes tightly at the thought. She hadn't lied when she told Cutler Beckett he'd left an impression on her - but it wasn't a pleasant one. He had appeared the very essence of cold, merciless detachment, and to come face to face with the fact that even such an aloof man possessed those desires... she did not wish to dwell on it.

She slowly steadied herself again, and rubbed her weary eyes with her palm. She looked up, and screamed.

"Why, hello," said Mr Mercer.

Elizabeth struck out blindly, dashing to the left and ducking under his arm, but the man snatched at her sleeve and the material ripped away at the seam. She pulled her arm through the torn sleeve and fled, tripping over the cobblestones. She darted down an even narrower alleyway, ducking beneath laundry strung between two buildings and knocking over a pail of slops. She heard Mercer slip on the mess and curse, but she didn't dare look back and continued running, panting and grabbing at a stitch in her side.

She sprinted to the end of the alley, her shoes clattering on the uneven paving, holding her skirts up so her legs were free to run. She came to a halt at the sight of a dead end. She gasped for air and whirled around frantically, and spotted a food vendor's cart. It was shut up tightly for the night but she fell to her knees, crawling beneath it and crouching behind the big wooden wheel.

She heard footsteps and, after a moment, saw boots come into view. They echoed slightly, ominously, in the empty alleyway. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to quell her labored breathing. Her lungs were burning and her stays were agonizing, and before she could stifle it, she let out an almost inaudible whimper of pain.

The boots walking past the vendors stopped. She froze as they approached, like a rabbit in the road when the carriage's lanterns shone on it. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure he'd hear.

Suddenly, a hand plunged behind the cart, and she shrieked and tried to scramble away out the other side. She cried out as Mercer grabbed a clump of her hair, winding it around his hand and pulling her to her feet.

"Let me go!" she screamed, both in anger and pain. She heard tramping feet behind her and angled her head to see four men in uniform.

"Get the irons," Mercer commanded, letting go of her hair. Elizabeth scrabbled to her feet but two of the soldiers caught her under the arms, dragging her hands in front of her and locking her wrists into the manacles. One of them pried the letters of marque from her grasp and handed it over to Mercer, who tucked them into his coat.

"You lead us on quite the merry chase," Mercer sneered, and Elizabeth just stared at him, breathing heavily and pulling against the heavy chains. The man smirked, and gestured to the soldiers. "Take her away."

Elizabeth struggled all the way to the prison, until she was too weary to fight anymore and she allowed them to shove her back into the rank, filthy cell. Nearby prisoners whispered obscene suggestions and leered, "Welcome back, luvvie," throwing pebbles to get her to look up. She sat on the hard bench, staring resolutely at the ceiling until her eyelids grew heavy - and finally, with her head resting against the cold stone wall, she slept.

xxx

The next morning, Elizabeth drove the jailer half mad, calling through the bars to him that she was innocent, and if he let her go she would see to it that he received a hefty reward. She would not to sit idly by while all manner of horrible things could be happening to Will or her father, and she did the best she could until the jailer threatened to slosh her with a bucket of water. She tried and failed to pick the lock with a stick.

She was on the verge of despair when two soldiers appeared, armed with muskets and manacles. Elizabeth shot to her feet.

"Miss Swann's presence is requested by Lord Beckett," one of them announced formally, while the other entered the cell and chained her wrists.

"No!" Elizabeth sat down again and refused to move until it was clear that if she didn't walk of her own accord, the soldiers would drag her. She left the prison with her head held high, despite her torn dress, messy hair, and the prisoners' fading jeers.

When Elizabeth was escorted into the room, Beckett was seated at his desk, blotting a piece of paper. An elderly mapmaker was painting Cape Horn on the massive wall map, and Beckett motioned for him to leave, which he did in a hurry. Beckett began to speak without looking at her.

"Miss Swann, I'd like your opinion on this draft." Beckett picked up the paper and began to read. "'Weatherby Swann, charged with conspiring to assist an individual convicted of crimes against the crown and empire, and condemned to death, for which the punishment is also death.'" Beckett glanced up. "Its simple, to the point. I like it."

Hatred blazed in Elizabeth's eyes. "You won't get away with this."

Beckett set the paper down, standing up and linking his hands together behind his back. "You'll find that I will. Your father is, in fact, now a criminal and I am free to treat him as such."

"I won't let you!" she exclaimed thoughtlessly, the words sounding silly the moment they came out of her mouth.

Beckett let out a short laugh. "You won't let me? Please, tell me..." he moved around the desk and regarded Elizabeth. "If there is any sort of leverage you possess to make me change my mind."

Their gazes locked as if in a child's staring contest. Elizabeth looked away first.

"Apparently not," he said, turning his back on her.

"You would never dare to do such a thing," Elizabeth burst out heatedly.

Beckett glanced back at her, his eyebrows raised. "Do you really want to try your luck?"

"No," Elizabeth said without thinking. She clamped her lips shut.

Beckett paused. He was silent for a moment as he watched her. "I know that you would do anything in your power to save your father - am I right?"

"Not anything," Elizabeth retorted.

Beckett shook his head almost imperceptibly. "What a shame. Could you live with yourself, knowing you didn't do all you could to help him?" He didn't wait for an answer, merely turned away and gestured to the guards. They stepped forward and took Elizabeth roughly by the arms.

"Wait!" Elizabeth cried. She noticed no change in Beckett's bearing as he strolled out the French doors to stand on the veranda and survey the busy harbor, like a feudal lord assessing his kingdom. She pulled herself free of the soldiers' grasps and followed him, her shackled wrists clanking and chafing as if to remind her of the prison cell that awaited her.

"Would you really do it?" she questioned, her voice angry, suspicious and tremulous at the same time. "Would you drop all charges against him and let us both go free?" She paused, the words sticking in her throat. " _And _return the letters of marque?"

Beckett turned to face her, and took several steps forward until they were eye level. His eyes were blue-green, she noticed, and as cold and unreadable as ice. "You have my word," he said indifferently.

"I don't trust your word," she spat.

Beckett's smile was complacent. "You don't really have a choice, do you?"

Elizabeth didn't answer. They stared at each other for a long, tense moment, before Beckett brushed past her. "You may remove the chains," she heard him order the soldiers. She stared out at the bay, oblivious to its vivid beauty and the glint of golden sunlight on the water. Tears marred the view.


	3. Frustration

Elizabeth sat alone in the middle of the massive four-poster bed, clad in nothing but a chemise and dressing gown. The clean, fresh fabric felt heavenly against her skin. Beckett had allowed her - accompanied by two guards, of course - to return to her house to collect necessities. She had tried to sneak a kitchen knife in case things became out of control, but the soldiers confiscated it from her and, after informing Beckett, he ordered her locked in this room to prevent another escape attempt.

Her hair was damp from the bath the servants had brought earlier, and she pushed strands from her face as she picked at the hem of her chemise, trying not to give in to panic.

She had agreed to Beckett's terms, only because she believed he would release her father that very day. Foolishly, she'd thought she could wait only until her father was out of danger, then steal back the letters of marque and make a run for it. How stupid of her not to realize that Beckett would insist on payment before he held up his part of the bargain.

_Either all these perilous misfortunes are turning my brain into mush, or the man is truly more intelligent than me, _she brooded with more than a touch of irritation. _I prefer the former to the latter. _

She had tried every possible route of exit - the door was securely locked, the windows as well. She had attempted to break the glass with her elbow, but it only resulted in a bruise. There was nothing in the room with which to pick the locks, and all she had done so far was sit on the bed and dwell on her plight, and that of her father. They were both trapped - he in a filthy prison cell, she in this luxurious bedroom.

She thought she heard the stairs creak, and she jerked her head up, expecting perhaps a maid to enter. After several minutes, the door did not open.

She got to her feet and moved carefully over to the door, peering out through the keyhole for the telltale flicker of a candle. She saw nothing, and straightened, letting out a sigh of both relief and tension. Servants passed the door fairly often, and each time they did her heart began to pound. But she assured herself that Beckett would not return until later - from what she could deduce, he had left to attend a dinner at a wealthy captain's house. Knowing how long these events sometimes lasted, it wouldn't finish until late evening. But with a glance out the window at the twilight sky, her time was soon drawing to a close.

With another sigh, she leaned against the wall and surveyed her surroundings. The room was large and somewhat sparse; she assumed that not all Beckett's personal belongings had arrived yet. A thick Persian rug adorned the floor, and an elegant cherry wood bookcase stood at the far wall, sadly devoid of books - she would've liked something to read, although she doubted she could concentrate on it.

A chest of drawers sat against the opposite wall and, to alleviate both her boredom and agitation, Elizabeth padded over and examined it. If she were a guest in someone else's home she would never be so rude as to pry through their private effects, but she had no such qualms now.

On the top of the polished drawers was a crystal decanter of brandy, two matching snifters on a small silver tray. She was tempted to take just a mouthful - _God knows I could use the fortification _- but she needed a clear mind and her wits about her.

The top drawer was almost empty, but she rifled through the contents anyway. A leather folder of blank pages, a small key, a pocket watch, a thin box of quills - nothing she could use as a weapon. She extracted a neatly penned document from beneath the box, curiously scanning over the writing, but it was only a receipt for the Persian rug.

There was another, smaller door opposite the main door, but Elizabeth had already checked it - it was locked. Now, she picked up the small key from the drawer and crossed the room, fitting it to the keyhole. The door opened with a click, and she cautiously peered through the crack, as if terrified of what she might find inside.

It was just a small dressing room, dominated by a large mahogany armoire. She swung the door open wider, taking several hesitant steps in.

Assured that the room was empty, she peered about her as she moved to the armoire. Despite herself, she was curious - she'd never seen the inner workings of a man's wardrobe before. At least, that was if she didn't count the roughly clad sailors down at the docks.

She unlocked the doors of the armoire with the key left conveniently in the lock. It was divided - half for drawers and half for hanging. Intrigued, she pulled open the top drawer. It was full of neatly folded linen shirts. Several shirts had a cascade of expensive lace, but most had one ruffle along the cuff. Some were crisp white and others a pale cream, all with full sleeves and perfectly ironed.

The next drawer contained neckcloths, starched and surprisingly long. Elizabeth thought that if she were a man she would hate to wear fabric tied around her neck all day - _but then again, the bastard deserves it, _she thought spitefully.

The hanging portion of the armoire was filled with jackets and waistcoats. Some were plain black or dark blue, with just an almost indiscernible pattern - others were brighter, with more noticeable designs, the coats cut from expensive fabric and trimmed with braid or brass buttons. She reached out to touch a brocade waistcoat when she heard a very audible creak on the stairs. She froze, until she was sure the footsteps were approaching the the bedroom. It was undoubtedly just another servant, but what if one of them came in and saw her rifling through their master's possessions? She slammed the armoire shut and fled back into the bedroom, pushing the door closed, giving the key a quick twist in the lock and stuffing it into her dressing gown pocket. After a moment she changed her mind and replaced the key in the chest of drawers, sitting down on the bed just as the door swung open.

Her heart leapt into her throat as she saw that it was Beckett.


	4. Desperation

**A/N: **Thank you all for the reviews. They may be few in number, but each one brightens my day.

**Chapter 4**

Elizabeth's heart turned to ice in her chest. She stared, frozen and horrified, as Beckett crossed the room. He was engrossed in reading a sheaf of papers, and only after he set the documents down on the bureau did he acknowledge her presence.

"I see you have yet to formulate an escape plan, Elizabeth."

"I have resigned myself to my fate," she lied coldly, somehow producing the retort from her agitated train of thought. _Escape, escape, what __**is **__my escape plan? Good God, he's returned too soon! _

He glanced away from the papers and up at her. The weight of his gaze made her feel half-naked in her flimsy attire, and she forced herself to remain still as he crossed the room again and opened the door to his dressing room.

The moment the door closed behind him, Elizabeth leapt from the bed and rushed to the window. She jiggled the locked catch desperately, knowing her efforts were futile - she had tried earlier. She splayed her hand against the glass, staring out at the twilight. She thought the darkened bay had never looked so beautiful as it did now.

What would happen if she screamed? No doubt his servants were either too loyal to their master or too fearful of him to come to her aid. What would he do if she fought and struggled and lashed out like a wildcat? Throw her back into the prison? _Father and I can hang together, _she thought bitterly.

A dreadful thought hit her like a sack of bricks. What would he consider complete payment? Her stomach gave a lurch of fear. One evening? A full night? Two? They had never exactly discussed it, merely skirted the topic. There had been no need to lay it out - the price tag on her freedom had been innately understood.

She returned to the bed, sinking down onto the edge and resisting the urge to panic. She was no milksop of a maid; she wouldn't burst into tears and hysterics. There had to be a logical solution.

She concentrated hard, keeping a tight reign on her thoughts lest they run away from her and become jumbled and senseless. Beckett had forced her into this situation by exploiting her weakness - saving her father from the gallows. Not just her father, she recalled. Herself as well. Beckett had only promised one pardon. What was _his _weakness? No man is infallible.

She stood up and paced the room, moving over to the bureau and fiddling with the brandy glasses. What was his weakness? What did he want? Other than her... but Elizabeth sensed that it was something more than that. He didn't necessarily want her in his bed - perhaps on the surface, but that was not his primary focus. What he wanted from her was submission.

Elizabeth's thoughts raced, her mind picking out little details and piecing them together. If she showed him willingess, obedience, submission, would he be satisfied and not take it any further? Would a few pandering, flattering words really appease his desire for domination? _Surely he could not be so vain as to fall for the same trick twice? _Elizabeth thought as she recalled the letter opener. But she seized upon the idea. It was all she had.

She heard the click of the dressing room door opening, and she jerked her head up. "May I have some brandy?" she blurted out.

Beckett regarded her for a long moment before advancing towards her. He had removed his cravat and exchanged his waistcoat and jacket for a deep-green brocade dressing gown, left open and trailing behind him. She realized a half second later that he had removed his wig, revealing wavy brown hair tied back in a short queue. His appearance seemed somehow shockingly intimate and it made Elizabeth's pulse jump erratically, setting her nerves on edge. There was only one situation in which a woman was meant to see a man dressed so informally - and it was not one she wanted to be in.

Elizabeth unconsciously took a step back as he approached and took the glass from the tray, filling it halfway and holding it out to her. Reluctantly she accepted it and downed the liquid, eyeing Beckett warily from the corner of her eye as he poured himself a glass.

Should she make a great show of defiance, so when she finally "submitted" it would make his victory all the sweeter? Or would it be better to duck her head and feign utter surrender? She sneaked a glance towards the door, but it was clear there was no escape through that route - besides, she had seen him lock it when he entered. But it would be a perfect display of insolence, a last ditch effort before she made the pretense of bowing to his will. Her head was reeling from her whirling estimations, Beckett was setting down his glass...

Without warning, she made a dash for the door, pushing past him and racing across the room. She slammed into the door and fumbled for the handle, and abruptly felt him seize her arms and twist them behind her. She didn't have to feign her cry of pain, and she stumbled on the hem of her dressing gown as he marched her over to the bed, her wet hair slapping against her face.

"Am I to expect another escape attempt this evening, Elizabeth?" His voice was deceptively calm, indifferent, infused with the mildest mock curiosity.

She shook her head, biting back another whimper of pain. She heard him let out a sigh behind her. "What was that?"

"_No, _" she gritted out. He released her arms so suddenly that she nearly fell. She scrambled to her feet, using the bedpost for support and resisting the urge to spit out an expletive.

"Lie down." At his words, shards of fear knifed through Elizabeth and she turned to face him. She opened her mouth to speak, but she could come up with nothing coherent to say.

Beckett regarded her with unreadable blue-green eyes, his hands linked behind his back. "Lie down," he repeated, and the tone in his voice brooked no argument.

Elizabeth looked away, biting her lip. After a long moment, she pulled herself up onto the bed, settled herself into the pillows and cushions, and stared up at the canopy. She wondered if he noticed her trembling. She hoped that he could. She was still clinging to the slim thread of hope that she could turn this situation, this... _nightmare _around.

Her gaze remained fixed on the canopy as she felt the bed shift under his weight as he sat down. Her body was as rigid as if she'd been encased in metal, her breathing shallow as if she were wearing her stays. For once she wished for its hard protective shell.

Elizabeth sucked in a breath as she felt his fingers on her skin, the barest of touches on the back of her hand and closing around her wrist. She forced herself to keep her eyes averted as she felt her hand being lifted, and a feather-light kiss brushed on the inside of her wrist. She let out a faint sound of dismay, and felt his mouth curve into a smile.

_He's enjoying this, _she realized. _He's enjoying my attempts to remain passive. _

She tried to detach herself from the situation, to block it out and become numb and deadened. Perhaps she could concentrate on what she would do once she had earned her liberty... she would free her father, find Will, help him locate the damned compass that would gain him _his _freedom...

She tried not to flinch as she felt his fingers dance along the outside of her calf, only the thin chemise separating her skin and his. It was useless - nothing could distract her. She was too aware of her surroundings, too conscious of him, the quiet of the room, the soft pillows at her back, the flickering candlelight. To her horror, her body responded to the light caresses, something deep inside her reacting to his touch. It dismayed her, and frightened her, to feel such strange pleasure despite her hostility towards this high-handed, domineering, arrogant man...

She bit her lip as his hands brushed over her hips and encircled her waist, and she clenched her fists at her side to remain still. She forced herself to remember her scheme... oh, God, what was she to do, she couldn't think with his hands skimming her ribs like that...

Abruptly, the jolt of recollection hit her. She relaxed her tense muscles, and forced out a moan - a moan that she prayed sounded like pleasure.

"Oh, my lord," she murmured.

He stilled for a fraction of a second, and hope leapt in her heart - only to be crushed again as he grasped her wrist and hauled her upright. Their faces were inches apart, and his eyes were somehow both steely and heated.

"If you hope to fool me again using the same trick, you are mistaken," he said, his voice deadly calm. Elizabeth compressed her lips and looked away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "If it displeases you to be called lord, I won't do it again."

Heavy silence seemed to ring in her ears as she stared down at the rumpled fabric of the bed. His grip on her wrist was like an iron vice.

"Say it again."

"My lord," she replied instantly.

He kissed her roughly.


	5. Submission

**A/N: **Thank you once more for the reviews. I have the feeling that some people will enjoy this chapter, some will be indifferent, and some will hate it. I hope you enjoy it but I can't please everybody, and this is the way I want it. Thus works my devious mind.

**Chapter 5 **

When Elizabeth awoke in the night, it was raining.

She lay for a long time, her eyes open and unseeing in the dark room, listening to the dull patter of rain on the roof and the rushing of water down the gutters. Outside the window a palm tree rattled in the wind, raindrops pelting the fronds like tiny bullets.

Elizabeth wept.

All the turmoil of the past three days came tumbling out of her in the form of silent but countless tears, as if in imitation of the rain pouring savagely from the sky. Confusion, anger, fear, desperation, guilt and, in the end, even pleasure went running away down her cheeks to stain the fine sheets.

She had been an innocent in the ways of men and women - an innocent, but not a fool. Ever a curious child, her ears pricked up when she overheard two maids enthusiastically discussing a tumble in the hay with the stablehand. She understood the logistics of the act, and she knew what common people said about it, and she knew the fluttering of excitement she got in her stomach when she flirted with a handsome man at one of her father's parties... but somehow, she had always imagined it as a rough, slipshod thing, a hazy experience that was pleasant but soon finished. She could not have guessed the exquisite arousal of desires simmering just below the surface, the breathtaking ecstasy of bodily sensation, the tantalizing agony of pleasure given, then withheld, again and again until she almost screamed for it, her face flushed with both shame and overwhelming passion.

He had had her. He had possessed her, in the very way he set out to possess her - not just her body, but even her mind, settling for nothing short of utter surrender. He had bewitched her with sensations that make her gasp and writhe and disregard animosity, forgetting hostility and turning over her free will to him. Control. He had always had control.

Elizabeth turned her face into the pillow.

After a time, she pushed herself upright, swinging her legs over the side and setting her bare feet on the floor. Her chemise lay there, discarded, and at the sight of it her cheeks burned crimson. She bent down and snatched it up, pulling it over her head. The boards creaked beneath her as she went to the window - she wondered if somewhere, in the house, he could hear her moving about. She didn't care.

The rain had tapered away to the lightest drizzle and the clouds had begun to dissipate, skittering away across the dark sky to reveal a sliver of gray moon. The light shone faintly through the window, the panes casting a criss-cross pattern on the floor. The only remnants of the stormy downpour were the steady drip of water from the eaves and the rivulets trickling down the outside of the glass.

She traced a droplet with her finger for a moment, the moonlight illuminating her disheveled hair and the bracelet of bruises on her wrists. She could hear music in the distance - despite the weather and extremely late hour, the taverns were still open and booming with business, no doubt bursting at the seams with people merry-making and seeking shelter from the rain.

But after a moment, she realized the music was too distinct to come from an outside source. It was in the house.

Her brow furrowed, and she crossed the room, pressing her ear to the door. Who would be playing music in the house? The servants, below stairs? The music was faint, dulled by the walls, but it was not one of the lively jigs played in the alehouses. Elizabeth reached for the handle without thinking, suddenly recalling that it was surely locked - but as she twisted it the door opened. She pushed it open warily, the darkness enveloping her like a tangible thing. She allowed her eyes to adjust before moving tentatively out onto the landing.

The music was clearer, the rippling notes of what she recognized as a pianoforte floating up the stairs. Her better judgement told her to return to the room, but, as so often before in her life, curiosity won over and she stepped down the wide staircase, the hem of her chemise whispering against the wood, moving carefully lest they creak and alert the player to her presence.

As a child, she hadn't studied music as much as her father had hoped. But even she, with her lack of knowledge and poor musical skills, found beauty in the fluid notes that echoed off the polished wooden floors and high ceilings. She moved cautiously through the great entry hall, the paintings dark and obscured and elegant _objets d'art _cloaked in shadows. She remembered coming through here yesterday; angry, wary and unkempt and clutching her meager possessions like they were a lifeline. Somehow, that seemed years ago.

The music grew louder as she approached the drawing room. The door was open, and as she drew closer she could see the wood paneling on the walls, seeming almost black in the darkness, despite the pale moonlight emanating from the windows. Several graceful couches, colors muted by the moonlight, were arranged a good distance from the glossy black piano that dominated the room. She put her hand on the doorframe and stopped moving.

He sat in three-quarters profile to her, his posture upright, the back of his dressing gown trailing behind him and draping the seat. His hands seemed to dance over the keys, striking each one precisely as the notes reverberated in the silence. The tune was one Elizabeth had not heard before, an intense, dark, passionate piece that seemed to flow through the room and elicit strange emotions in her. The music swelled, each chord perfect and haunting and powerful, his hands both caressing and uncompromising on the keys as he deftly mastered the instrument. Such cruel hands, such merciless, dominating hands...

When their eyes met, she stiffened. His playing never faltered as he watched her watch him, his hands moving as if with a mind of their own, the music seeming to pour from his fingertips.

She refused to break the contact first. He refused to let her, his eyes compelling her to stay and match that piercing stare with her own. She flushed as their gazes remained locked, feeling defenseless and stripped naked by his eyes. Images seemed to flash before her - tangled sheets, strong grip, brutal kisses, moans escaping her lips even as she tried to hold them back, to deny him the satisfaction of seeing her give in...

Not this time. She wouldn't allow him the victory of defeating her once again. She tightened her jaw and angled her chin up, knowing that at some point, he would have to stop playing. She could stand here all night, but eventually his hands would tire and he would look away.

The carriage clock on the mantlepiece struck two.

The cadence of the music changed, the notes dying away as the song ended. Elizabeth waited for him to break the eye contact but instead he shifted smoothly into the next piece. She briefly wondered that he had the notes stored away in his mind, and had no need of sheet music.

"Are you planning on standing like a statue until dawn?"

His voice was unexpected and it made her start. "Does my presence bother you?" she snapped back, failing in her efforts to match his cool tone.

"If it did, I would send you away."

"I might not choose to obey you," she replied.

His expression suddenly became both knowing and mildly amused, and she flushed, perfectly understanding his train of thought. He didn't respond - there was no need.

She couldn't stand it. She looked down and fled back up the stairs, the music following her.


	6. Liberation

**A/N: **Last chapter, folks. I'm sorry to be leaving it behind, but I can't really drag it out anymore. It's been a lot of fun to write, so I hope you've enjoyed it - or, at least, don't entirely hate it.

**Chapter 6 **

As Elizabeth stood in front of the desk she felt like a servant about to be punished, or a subject awaiting a sentence from the magistrate. She resisted the impulse to tap her foot with impatience as Beckett took his own time filling a paper with smooth, compact writing.

The East India Trading Company headquarters were bustling with people but the office was relatively calm, almost aloof from the shouted orders and rush of activity outside. From the corner of her eye she could see great crates being unloaded from ships, swinging pendulously over the water in cargo nets, while soldiers marched along in a small formation. A striking young gelding was being led up the dock, prancing along and tossing his mane like it was a game. His handlers looked wary, and one young lad looked about to be swept off his feet by the horse's erratic movements. She watched them regain control of the animal before returning her attention to things at hand.

She had dressed to the nines today. To remind him she was no wanton wench - despite the fact that at some points during the night she had felt like one. Her stays were laced tightly, her figure dramatic and elegant in deep rose silk. She had rarely done her hair on her own before, and her arms ached after fruitless attempts to pin it up. But this was of paramount importance - somehow, she must get her hair up. _Loose hair, loose woman. _Finally, she managed to force it into something resembling a chignon.

Elizabeth watched him, and wondered, with an embarassed bite of her lip, if perhaps this was what it was like to use opium. It was unhealthy for you, it turned your brain away from its proper reasoning, it distorted your sense of wrong and right, it plagued you with guilt, and you wished you could stop... but you couldn't. Addicts paid dearly to get ahold of the substance, and suffered for it later. But to get one taste of it, and to feel that ecstasy, so agonizing in its shameful pleasure that you can't imagine finding it elsewhere...

She shut her eyes and gave her lip another hard bite to bring her thoughts to a halt. She wondered briefly if he had forgotten her presence, then dismissed the idea immediately. He was either toying with her, or dealing with what he felt were more important matters. Was he even thinking about the events that had transpired? Or had it all been put aside and forgotten like any other business negotiation? She didn't care, she decided suddenly. She watched him sit there, calmly writing in his carved chair and elegant clothes, and hated him and wanted him at the same time.

"Lord Beckett," she began abruptly, "I've come here to settle our bargain."

For a moment she thought he was going to continue ignoring her. Then he beckoned her forward without looking up and, as much as the casual authority of this gesture bothered her, she took several steps forward and extended her hand.

Beckett set his quill in its stand and blotted his paper, examining it for smears before tucking it into a leather folder. He merely sat complacently, drumming his fingers slowly on the polished surface and watching her stand with her arm outstretched. After a moment she let her hand fall.

"Surely you don't mean to go back on your word." Her voice was laced with sarcasm and suspicion, but even as she spoke he opened a small drawer in the desk and removed the letters of marque. Her heart gave a great leap and she raised her hand again.

"The letters."

His eyes burned holes into her. "Yes, I daresay you've earned them."

Her jaw tightened ever so slightly, and he picked up the letters and held them out to her. She reached across the desk and grabbed the leather casing, but his grip remained firm.

"It's been a _pleasure _doing business with you, Miss Swann. I trust you've gotten everything you wanted out of this transaction."

This time Elizabeth managed to hold back her blush at his subtle taunt. He knew how hard she'd tried to resist and he knew that despite herself, she'd enjoyed it - he savored the knowledge. He delighted in the fact that against her own will he'd enticed her baser desires... even though she didn't want it, she couldn't help herself.

He deliberately brushed her finger with his own and she sucked in a breath. She saw the look of triumphant amusement in his eyes and quickly snatched the letters away, and he let his hand come to rest on the desk.

She unwrapped the bindings and opened the letters, scanning the signatures at the bottom as if to be sure his was still there. It was, of course, neat and precise, along with the seal. The crimson wax was somehow glaring and accusatory. She folded up the letters so she wouldn't have to look at it.

"Fully satisfied?" Beckett inquired mildly, and the double-meaning in his words cut her like a knife.

"Fully," Elizabeth lashed back. He smiled calmly.

"I endeavor to leave my business partners more than pleased with the dealings."

She nodded stiffly.

"Remember what I said, Elizabeth." His voice curled over her like smoke. "I still expect that compass."

She turned on her heel and swept through the doors, grateful that the voluminous gown hid the trembling of her knees.

x x x

"May I ask how you came by these letters?"

"Persuasion."

"Friendly?"

"Decidedly not," came her whiplash reply, almost quick enough to be interpreted as defensive. Jack tucked the letters into his coat and swaggered away and she leapt after him, demanding for their return.

"Persuade me," Jack replied in a suggestive drawl.

Tongue-tied. She'd pushed these memories away for weeks, skillfully masking her emotions at the mention of Beckett's name or the letters of marque.

But this... this was unfair! As if he was jeering at her. She groped for a reply as Jack grinned at her, her mouth opening and shutting like a fish. She fumbled through the truth and the lies and oh, the truth, that it was certainly persuasion, but she also had been persuaded...

She couldn't stand it and she turned away, barely able to keep herself from running full speed to the opposite side of the deck.

She curled her fingers around the battered railing, the wood worn from rain and weather. Her hands, once pampered and smooth, were now grimy and calloused, the nails chipped. She wondered what her maid would say if she could see these hands. She wondered what Beckett would say if he saw her hands. Something calm but subtly derisive, and she'd shoot back a scathing reply, to which he'd merely smile coolly.

She had tried to ignore the memories but no, she hadn't forgotten. Time had just gone by in a blur, distracting her from everything except the present moment - stowing away on the _Edinburgh Trader, _the rowdy, chaotic streets of Tortuga, the confusing business of the chest of Davy Jones, and Jack's strange compass.

She didn't plan on delivering the compass into Beckett's hands, of course, but whenever it was mentioned she recalled his final command. _Remember, Elizabeth... _his voice caressing her like dark silk.

Yes, she remembered.

She smiled.


End file.
